


A Gift of Green

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Frodo stays in the Shire, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Optional concern about sailing West, Oral Sex, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 10:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16217402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: In which Sam asks for an unusual present for Frodo's birthday, and Frodo obliges his request fully.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/112710) for Kinktober 2018, #6 and #26: Corsets and Stockings.  
> I consider this suitable for 'corsets' as Frodo certainly wears one, even if the stockings get the majority of the attention.

It was midsummer in the year 1420 S.R., and Sam had just brought tea into Bag End's study. Frodo was patiently flipping through a set of notes Gimli had left for him, transcribing relevant text to the Red Book, but he paused and thanked Sam with a kiss on the cheek as he brought in the tea-tray.

“How goes it?” asked Sam, setting the tray down on the single, empty corner of Frodo's desk as the latter hurried to shuffle things about and enlarge the corner.

“Eh, fairly well. I'm wondering if he hasn't fudged the numbers in his competition with Legolas at Helm's Deep, but true answers may never be known to mortal minds. In any case, if I get too many conflicting accounts, on this point I'm willing to just pick what I like best.”

Sam nodded, while Frodo put aside his work and helped arrange the set for serving. Shortly after, as they began sipping their tea, they spoke of a few idle things going on in Hobbiton and beyond, until Frodo asked, “Is there anything particular you'd fancy for my birthday, Sam?”

Sam looked up in surprise. “T'is a bit early to be askin' isn't it?”

Frodo shrugged, setting down his cup. “Perhaps. I... I've just been thinking I'd like to get you something very special this year, and if you wanted something elaborate, now would be a good time to start on it.” In fact, this would be Frodo's first birthday that they shared together, in Bag End as a couple. Though there were still dark thoughts that often clouded his mind, Frodo wanted a definitively happy event to remember after the Ring's destruction.

There was a thoughtful silence, before a blush crept up Sam's cheeks and he began to fiddle with his napkin. “W-well, there are a fair few things, I suppose.”

Frodo playfully nudged Sam's foot with his own. “Come on then; I'm afraid you'll have to tell me outright, as I can't read minds like Gandalf.”

Another silence followed as Sam thought over his heart's desire. There was one thing he'd been daydreaming for some months about, and he was at once both excited and nervous at this chance to make it a reality. “It's- not much, o' course, an' you can say 'no' an' I won't be leastways upset.” Frodo – in a prompting manner – raised an eyebrow. “Ehm- well,” Sam squirmed in his seat, “I'm hopin' you wouldn't think me silly or a fool, or take it the wrong way,”

“It would be difficult for me to do any of those things, if it's you.”

Sam ducked his head, welcomed by the tender look of reassurance on Frodo's face, but still anxious. “An'- an' it's not that I wish you were a lass, just-”

Frodo – who wasn't really understanding Sam's hesitations – leaned forward to take his hand. “Sam, really, it's all right-”

“-Would you be all right in a dress?” Sam sputtered at last, risking only a glance at Frodo before pointedly averting his gaze.

Frodo, not having expected that, leaned back and considered Sam. “A dress?”

Sam slowly hid his face in his hands. “Aye- not- not that you're a lass, or I want you to be! Just... I think you'd look so fair...”

Out of habit, Frodo had picked up a quill and begun twirling it between his fingers. “Would you want me to wear it often, or...?”

“Nay- just... on occasions, if you understand. Not often- not for others t'see, o' course!” Sam was still flustered, but began to calm down. “Just- like with the stockings, I were  
thinking.”

Earlier in the year – in a rather similar occurrence to this – Sam (who already having made clear his fondness for Frodo's thighs) shyly asked Frodo if he'd be willing to wear thighless stockings.

Frodo had been surprised by the notion, but had no opposition to it; they showed off his legs, which Sam adored, making the idea all the more favorable. To Frodo, there was something very pleasurable in being found desirable, and no harm in elevating that desirability with something pretty and soft, especially as a gift to Sam.

“If it weren't too much,” Sam was tentative, “I were thinking silk, or sommat; just... sommat long, an' fine, an' soft all around you, that we'd both be, eh, touching an'- rubbing, you know. An', well, as it is, dresses are right pretty, an' you prettier, so... Methought combinin' 'em, perhaps...”

Frodo sat quietly, rolling the idea around in his head. When he'd been much younger, there had been a few times he'd gotten into his mother's or Aunt Esmeralda's wardrobe (in the latter case, with Merry's help) and played with their garments as any child would. They had been very soft and pretty – but as Frodo had learned one year in his tweens, when Merry suggested they try passing him off as a lass when meeting a group of cousins they'd not met before – they could be cumbersome.

It had been delightfully funny to fool nearly all those cousins for the day, but the layers had started getting heavy and hot very quickly, and it was a relief to take the corset off at the end of the it, and take a full breath of air. Later on Esmeralda had told him one wasn't supposed to lace it that tight in the first place, and Frodo felt a bit more of a fool than usual.

Though, he hadn't disliked wearing it, and usually dresses themselves were fine and soft. He certainly wouldn't want to go out in public in one again, but the idea of doing it for Sam didn't horrify him. “Do you want to design it, or do you want me to surprise you?”

Sam's reaction was delayed, but quickly enough, he perked up and stared wide-eyed at Frodo, trying to process what he'd just said. “Eh- I! Oh! You- you'd do it?”

“I will,” promised Frodo, “once I know if I'm to surprise you or not.”

Sam veritably melted, and took Frodo's hand and kissed it. “Thank'ee! You are right wonderful, you know! An'- ehm, could- could you help me wi' makin' a design?”

Frodo pulled Sam up and forward into a kiss. “Of course.”

 

–

 

When their other obligations and duties allowed, Frodo and Sam spent their free time together pouring over design books and popping in to consult local tailors. While a few sketches were rejected, key points remained the same through the evolution of Sam's vision, until at last they settled on what he thought perfect, and could be submitted to a tailor to make.

The night they confirmed the final sketch, they had a rather rowdy celebration in bed, and as Frodo snuggled up on and against Sam's heaving chest, he asked – trying to keep a laugh out of his voice, “Would you like me to wear any sort of padding, Sam?” he asked, gesturing to his own chest with his hands. “As it is, I'm afraid I can't manage very titillating cleavage.”

Sam looked down at Frodo's smiling face and blushed, considering. “Well, nay, you can't. But that ain't what I'm after at the first,” and he snuggled Frodo closer, “I'm wantin' t'see you in a dress, not wi' fake tits.”

An explosion of chuckles billowed across Sam's chest. “Very well then,” laughed Frodo, “I think the measurements will miff the tailor, but surely it shan't kill them.”

 

–

 

The month following saw little talk of the dress at all, though there was one early evening in the middle of September that Sam spied Frodo coming in with a rather sizable but thin box. Having a mighty suspicion, he innocently asked of its contents, and Frodo had playfully spanked him in passing, saying he could and would wait a week to find out.

That week felt terribly long to Sam, and was not aided by Frodo's constant cheek or innocent play whenever the topic came up in conversation.

By the time Sam felt he was going to burst from anticipation, the day of September 22nd finally dawned.

He was glad they were once and for all at home, after Frodo's last two birthdays had been spent on the road. Celebrating his 51st in Rivendell with Bilbo had been pleasant enough, but there was something so satisfying and... grounding, to be able to serve him breakfast in bed in Bag End, and wake him up with kisses in the bed they shared.

Frodo had looked delighted and confused to see such a lavish meal before him when he opened his eyes. “Mm, what's all this? It's _my_ birthday, Sam, and I'm supposed to be giving things to _you_.”

Sam had settled back in bed beside him, and played with his hair as he sat up. “Not much, truth to tell, just a 'thank-you' for bein' your wonderful you.”

At that, Frodo had kissed him and insisted they share, which Sam conceded to, but insistently left the majority for Frodo. When they finished, Sam began gathering the dishes, and looked at Frodo innocently. “An'- so, when might you be startin' _your_ giving, then?”

“Once the dishes are done – which you're going to let me help with,” said Frodo, “and then you'll wait out in the garden for a bit, all right? Set out a blanket too, if you please.”

To this, Sam agreed, and kept to his promise. As he waited, he chose to do something to keep his mind occupied, lest the last of the morning seem even longer than the whole week before. He started raking up the few leaves that had already fallen into the yard – though, not very well, as his mind was still utterly distracted with giddy visions of what Frodo's present was going to look like.

By the time he'd gathered a rather small, ankle-deep pile of the fallen leaves, he plainly dropped his rake when he heard a tentative, “Sam?” come from the kitchen door. Turning, he was greeted with a vision that met and exceeded every daydream of the past year.

Though Sam hadn't asked for it, Frodo had spent the summer and early autumn letting his hair grow out a bit more, and a length of silver-touched, ebony curls was settled over one shoulder. Atop his head was a wide-brimmed, white hat, strapped under his chin with soft, dark green tulle – and decorating the crown and brim of the hat were flower blossoms of varying types and shades of blue and white.

Frodo had also gone to some effort with making up his face, and to Sam's wonder he looked near to the same as he had years ago – when fresh out of his tweens – with a touch of coral on his lips and a dusting of pink across his cheeks.

Of course, what sent Sam nearly to his knees in shock, was the gown Frodo wore. It was silk of the deepest forest green, the over-skirt ruffled at the edge, with it all sweeping the ground, keeping hidden Frodo's feet. The sleeves ended at the mid-forearm and were cuffed with white ruffles, at the tops of which were lengths of soft blue ribbon tied each with a blue bow. The stomacher and under-skirt were both at base white, but embroidered with twining vines that blossomed at the tips into flowers of blue that matched those of the hat. On Frodo's hands were fingerless gloves of lace that disappeared up beyond his sleeves, and at his neck was an elaborate, many-rowed pearl choker. The neckline and measure of chest the gown exposed, showed also the scars he bore from the chain on which the Ring had been, but he had not made an effort to obscure them.

A needy, “Oh,” was the first thing Sam could articulate.

Frodo smiled demurely, curtsying, before spinning to further show off the gown, keeping eye contact where he could, and looking over his shoulder with a pleased expression as he turned. “Do you like it, Sam?”

“Oh,” said Sam again, already feeling himself stiffen, “oh, _yes_. More- more than- oh. Oh, it- you're _beautiful_.”

Frodo made the powder on his cheeks unnecessary as he blushed. “I hoped you would.” He was also delighted at more than just the dress being well-received; in Sam's words, he was beautiful. Wanted. Desired. Even after everything – even if his scars were still plain – he was... loved.

Playing innocent, he laced his fingers behind his back and made his way up to Sam, skirts swishing across the grass. Sam was already scarlet to the ears, and Frodo tilted his head, exposing his neck, and said, “Care for a closer look?”

Sam's movements were slow, as if he were in a dream and just figuring how to move, and every move he made was careful and shy, as if Frodo were spun of gossamer and might dissipate if touched too roughly.

Sam first found Frodo's now-free (and maimed) left hand, and placed a reverent, slow kiss on the lace-covered knuckles, before raising a shy hand to Frodo's cheek. All the while, Frodo had a look of pleased anticipation as Sam's fingers wandered with a feather-light touch over his face, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear before returning to his cheek. Slowly, carefully, Sam cupped it, looking awed – still, it seemed, not quite sure all of this was real – and then brought their mouths together in a gentle kiss.

It began soft, and gradually increased in pressure, as Sam brought his other hand up to Frodo's face, and Frodo mirrored the gesture, pulling them closer together. It was all familiar yet somehow new all over again as they kissed, opening their mouths to lick and nip at one another. Sam struggled to be gentle with Frodo's hair and hat, while Frodo wasted not a moment twining his arms around Sam's neck.

They broke for breath after long enough, and Sam pulled back only a little to begin exploring the rest of Frodo's transformation with his mouth. He pressed a string of hot kisses over Frodo's cheeks, a temple, and graced an ear from tip to lobe, before continuing downwards. Over Frodo's jaw, to the curve of his neck, with a pause to nose the choker curiously before moving on. Onwards to the scar that made a near-circuit around Frodo's neck, covering what he could reach of it with kisses.

Frodo squirmed at this and blushed, but didn't tell ask for it to stop – kisses placed on his scars always made him feel odd, but not uncomfortable. It was a relieving, freeing thing for them to be accepted and not scorned nor hated, yet for them to be pointed subjects of affection made him feel conflicted, but also giddy.

In fact, Sam even nosed at Frodo's left shoulder, experimenting if the fabric would stretch so far as to reveal the Morgul wound, but Frodo – whose hands were in Sam's hair – stopped him with an affectionate ear pinch. “There are pins in your way, at the moment.”

Sam made a disappointed noise, but continued his kissing, bending down further until he was beginning to lower to his knees as he kissed the top of Frodo's chest. Once his lower lip hit the top of the stomacher, he paused, looking up at Frodo questioningly. Frodo's only answer was to raise an eyebrow.

Sam's gaze flickered down to the skirts, and after he placed a final kiss against Frodo's chest, he sank to his knees, reveling in the feel of the fabric as he did. Once on his knees, he took hold of the edges of the skirts, and to Frodo's surprise, lifted them up and over his head. “Sam!” Frodo cried, laughing as he tried to find Sam's head with his hands under the skirts.

Never before had Sam Gamgee been up and under anyone's skirts. The first thing he noticed was that it was rather dark and somewhat stuffy. The second was that Frodo had no undergarments on, save for his old stockings. Like his gloves, they were white lace, didn't cover his inner thighs, and along the hem that ran framed them, was a thin blue ribbon that formed a bow on the outer side of each leg. As Sam's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, and he felt Frodo's hands on his head, he saw also that Frodo was hard, and a blue silk bow was tied at the top of his shaft, just beneath the crown.

Through the skirts above, Sam could hear – though it was a bit muffled – Frodo ask, “Do you like your present, Sam?”

In reply, Sam placed a gentle kiss on Frodo's shaft, just beneath the ribbon, before nosing it and taking one end of the silk in his teeth. He knew full well he could use his hands, but somehow that seemed much less sexy at the moment.

With several gentle tugs, a few repositions and Frodo curling his toes and squirming, the ribbon came undone and off, and for safe keeping Sam tucked it in his breast pocket, before nuzzling and kissing down Frodo's shaft. Coming to his hips, and this time using the aid of his hands, he encouraged Frodo to widen his stance, before Sam ran a line of kisses up and down each of his thighs, and then with a bit of careful angling, extended kisses also to his sac.

Frodo was beginning to squirm in earnest, and struggling to find a grip on the lump beneath his skirts that was Sam's head. This was rather unlike anything they'd done before, and though Frodo would've enjoyed something he could cling to with more ease, there was something delightful about not being able to see Sam, and only feel what he was doing.

Subsequently, and with all gentleness, one at a time Sam took one of Frodo's balls into his mouth and sucked it, lavishing them each with his tongue and light play with his teeth.

After he'd released the second, he pointedly turned his attention to Frodo's shaft, and raised himself on his knees to lick the crown, savoring the drop of bitter salt that had already begun to bead there. Meanwhile, his hands rose to Frodo's hips to keep them still, and pressed against their struggles to buck forward as Sam continued to lick and suckle the head.

“Oh- Sam!” Frodo cried, blissful they were in the back garden and couldn't be seen nor heard, “Yes-- like that- oh!”

With intended slowness, Sam began to take down Frodo all the way, until his nose touched the thicket of hair between Frodo's hips, and Sam swallowed. Frodo cried out again and jolted his hips into Sam, but not enough to deter Sam's slow recession back to Frodo's head. Once there, he slipped off completely for a breath, and to lick and kiss the spongy tip again, before sliding back down.

This way, he set up a rhythm of down, back, lick and kiss, and repeat – and each cycle yielded a saltier taste than before, as from exertion and the weight of his clothes, Frodo had begun earnestly sweating. Which prompted Sam during his kissing breaks to also slip down to lick his thighs, all the while Frodo was moaning and squirming as he alternately held Sam's head or shoulders to brace himself.

It wasn't long into Sam's settled rhythm that Frodo began to tense and stiffen, and Sam forewent the kisses to keep Frodo in his mouth as Frodo swelled even harder. In a few heartbeats more, he jerked forward and cried Sam's name, pushing himself more deeply down Sam's throat and finally spilling gush after gush of seed, which Sam drank down greedily.

When he had nothing left to give, Frodo staggered, and stayed up only for the brace Sam had on his hips, as Sam hurried to free himself of the skirts and help Frodo down.

The descent wasn't all together graceful, but quickly enough Sam had untangled himself and helped Frodo onto the blanket, where he fell on his back, and took his first long breath since Sam had delved under his skirts. Sam, meanwhile, was flushed and looking at him with a sort of hungry awe. Frodo managed a dazed smile, and said, “You're hair's rather a mess, Sam-love.”

Sam confirmed this by running a hand through it, and found it was even rather frizzy with static cling. “An' all worth it.”

“I agree,” Frodo reveled in another long, pleasured breath, “you, Sam, are wonderful. But, I think we're not yet done.” His gaze fell to the very prominent bulge between Sam's legs. “What would you like next?”

This caught Sam off guard – he wanted very much to be pleasured in turn, but he'd payed no thought to how after Frodo appeared in the dress. “Um,” he said, surveying Frodo, lying on his back as he was. Perhaps offering a suggestion or prompt, Frodo tented his knees and crossed an ankle over his opposite knee, raising the skirts enough to show his legs and stockings.

Sam took notice of this, and found himself torn a number of ways. He wanted still to see the dress and revel in how fine Frodo looked in it, but also he was drawn to the soft skin and lace under his skirts. Considering Frodo for a long moment, he asked tentatively, “Just like this? You on your back, an'- oh, but oil...”

Frodo this time offered a cheeky smile, before pulling the stomacher away from his chest and retrieving something from between his pectorals and the corset, which turned out to be a very small bottle of oil. It was only a little, but enough. “I've always wanted to see what that was like,” he said, struggling not to laugh, “and it's bloody uncomfortable.”

Chuckling, Sam bent down and kissed him, and with Frodo's help discarded his weskit and braces, followed by his trousers and undergarments. Frodo looked with a great deal of admiration between Sam's legs as he lay down again, and Sam settled on his knees between Frodo's legs. He up Frodo's skirts, before shifting his legs onto his own shoulders and uncorking the bottle. “Let me know when you're ready?” he asked, warming a palmful of oil between his hands.

“Of course,” and Frodo sighed pleasantly as Sam began to rub and spread him.

Once Frodo was ready, and Sam slipped inside his blissfully tight heat, he was offered one of the most dazzling sights of his life. Frodo was beneath him, in a sea of green silk and looking otherwordly fair, as his pale chest – shiny with sweat – heaved beneath the bodice; the creamy expanse of his thighs were framed so beautifully by soft lace; and they, in turn, nearly framed the point their bodies joined as one.

Sam struggled to thrust slowly to make the moment last as long as possible; to revel in Frodo's exceptional beauty and the pleasure of their bodies, Frodo's moans and cries, and how he pulled on Sam's hair when Sam pressed against just the right spot.

It seemed all too soon when he stiffened and came inside Frodo, pleasure overcoming him in stunning waves as he cried Frodo's name.

When he focused again, he was bracing heavily on his forearms, while his cheek rested gently on Frodo's stomach. Frodo's hands were smoothing and combing his hair, and they stopped to hold his cheeks as Sam pushed himself up a bit to look at Frodo. “Glory,” was what he said first, “you're glory.”

Frodo treated him to a smile, and stroked his cheek with a thumb. “You, moreso, love.”

Sam struggled not to melt on top of Frodo, and in fact began trying to get properly up, but paused, and looked back to Frodo, abashed. “Eh- well- the dress. Ehm, if I pull out now-”

One of Frodo's hands disappeared into the fold of his skirt, and returned with a silk kerchief. Sam took it, but glanced at Frodo once more, to be sure.

“That's what it's for.” assured Frodo, “A bit of your love won't hurt it.”

Sam blushed and sat back, drying the both of them off as he slipped out. His next move was to collapse on his back beside Frodo, smiling with delight and exhaustion. Combating the same, Frodo managed to sleepily roll onto his side, and asked, “Well then, Master Samwise, was your present acceptable?”

Sam nodded as vigorously as he could, pulling Frodo down into a kiss. “Oh, aye; plainly the best I've ever been given on a birthday. A right dream come true, an' no mistake.”

“Curiously specific.” Frodo murmured, nosing him.

“Best gift of 'em all weren't on a birthday.”

A downhearted look entered Frodo's eyes, but he tried not to show it. “What was it, and what for, then?” he asked.

“T'wasn't for a special day, I don't think,” said Sam, cupping Frodo's cheek, “or if it were, it escapes me. The present, o'course, was you.” and they kissed again, Frodo nipping Sam's lower lip for his cheek.

“Am I improved, then, with the dress?” he asked, amused and endeared by Sam as he settled his head and arms on Sam's chest.

Sam contemplated how to answer. “Well, it's... it's like a cake I think, y'see. You alone, Frodo, are a plain delicious cake with awful good icing. But the dress,” Sam's hand ran over the skirt, “t'is- t'is like another icing, that's just as good, but- but adds more o' the icing, an' makes it even better, if you understand.”

“I think – or well enough, anyway.”

“Is it much comfortable? To wear, I mean.”

Frodo shifted and took the deepest breath he could. “Rather, but not forever. It does get rather hot, and the corset a bit confining.”

A blush rose in Sam's cheeks of a sudden. “It- part o' me would love t'see you in it all day, but if that's so, mayhap we could spend the rest o' today, without clothes at all?”

Frodo's lips curled into a devilishly delighted smile. “On the condition you help me take it off.”

As it turned out, Sam was in no way opposed to the idea. With heavy legs they managed to pick themselves, the blanket, and Sam's clothes up, and go inside. After which, Sam was given a thorough class in how a lass or lad takes off a dress, and was informed he could now only use the knowledge in very specific and worthy circumstances. To this, Sam agreed.

Near the end, Frodo breathed a great sigh of relief when the corset came off, and wriggled out of the chemise himself. “That was lovely, Sam,” he said, slipping off the gloves and stockings, “I don't want to do it every day, but several days I could stand. In fact, I did quite like it. Thank you for wanting such a wonderful present.”

Sam nosed Frodo's back, and then held him in a gentle hug. “T'weren't much, really. Thank'ee for bein' okay wi' it all, then goin' an' doin' it, an' all the way as well.”

Frodo reached back and tangled a hand in Sam's hair. “I couldn't do anything less for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra bit I didn't think was perfectly cohesive with the rest of the narrative sneaked in at the end, and was tucked into Chapter 2. Consider it, perhaps, a commemorative for the anniversary of Weathertop (October 6th).


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the day was spent as they'd vowed before, without clothes and generally in bed.

In fairness for the scars on his neck receiving such attention, Sam also pointedly placed kisses on both the wound from Shelob and the Morgul blade, even so far as that night sleeping with his cheek on the latter. From this, Frodo remembered with unease the anniversary of it was approaching, and hoped the day would not bring such grief as the year before.

His gaze wandered to one wall of the room, beyond which was his study, where the Red Book was open on his desk. Anxiety began to bubble in him as he recalled the offers extended to him to journey West, and he looked down at Sam's sleeping face.

Above all he didn't want to leave Sam, and gripping the bedsheets in one hand, he didn't want to leave the Shire, either. He was scared, both of being torn from them and also of the evil he carried that might never fully heal. He sniffled, and brought a hand to his mouth to muffle a sob, but Sam still stirred at his side. “Frodo? You all right?”

Frodo knew he hadn't time to scrub away the tears that had already fallen down his cheeks. “Sam- would you follow me away from here- away forever- even if I didn't ask you to?”

Sam stared in some confusion, before he worked out enough, “Yes, o' course. I wouldn't leave you. An' I won't. What's this about?”

“I'm scared. I want to stay but I don't know if I can.” Frodo touched his shoulder with trembling hands. “I don't know if it will ever heal in Middle-earth.”

“Lord Elrond said it might,” replied Sam, nosing Frodo to comfort him.

“If I'm lucky. Very, very lucky.”

“An' loved,” Sam reminded, placing a kiss on the scar – causing it to tingle, but not unpleasantly, “which you are, awful much.

“But even if it doesn't, you aren't gettin' rid o' me. Not ever, an' that's a promise.”

“Thank you.” was all Frodo could say. They resettled, Sam's cheek on his shoulder again, but holding him tighter than before.

Frodo's eyes drifted to the emerald dress lying in the sitting chair in the corner. He knew he was loved, and he loved in turn. He hoped, pulling Sam close, it would be enough.


End file.
